


Of Men And Magic

by yummyluc



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Major Original Character(s), Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 12:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13717266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yummyluc/pseuds/yummyluc





	Of Men And Magic

Staring up at the familiar building was both nostalgic and eerie at the same time. It was old, but not too old. Noticeable cracks in the brickwork, weeds poking out in places by the foundation where they shouldn't be, rusted bikes sitting in the driveway, it nearly looked abandoned. The door he had been examining for the past twenty minutes was far less interesting than he was making it out to be. A simple, dark olive green coat of paint that was beginning to chip at the edges, some parts slightly swollen from water damage that made it sit awkwardly within the door frame. The faux golden knocker was beginning to rust. The place had been old when he lived there, seeing it even older now felt surreal. He looked back at his car, parked in the shoddy-looking driveway that he and his little brother used to run around and play army in. The thought pulled at the muscles in his face to form a small, almost sad smile. A sigh left him. He could turn back. He wanted to. But he didn't because the weight of the letter in his pocket was too much.

Chin up, shoulders back, eyes open, Vincent gave the door a knock. Just a few quick, quiet taps against the door. At first, there wasn't an answer, and a bubble of hope bloomed in his chest. Maybe he didn't have to do this today. Maybe he could tell them that he couldn't, something had come up and--

The bubble popped as the familiar old creak of the doorknob sounded, and the hinges squealed as they were turned. Suddenly, a shorter, scrawnier form stood in the doorway just across from him. A few clicks of awkward silence, the shock of seeing an aged but recognizable face was so strange to him. Vincent gave a shy wave.

"Hey, Benny," He murmured, forcing an awkward smile, "Long time, no see, little brother."

Bennet looked him up and down for a moment, eyes wide in disbelief. Had he really been gone that long? In fact, the more that Vincent looked him over he was... different. The scrawny figure had become more filled in, and the round face he had once known was sharper and more angular. Older. He was snapped out of a trance when a strange, deep voice spoke.

"Vincent," Bennet said, though it sounded angry, almost as if he had spat the name out. Like it was poison he shouldn't swallow.

Saying Vincent's full name was almost taboo. He was so often affectionately nicknamed, he sometimes forgot his full name. It was even rarer for Bennet to use it, as they were each other's best friends for most of Bennet's childhood. They gave each other their well-known nicknames out of brotherly love and made a promise never to use one another's full names. That was their pact. That was their promise. But Bennet had said it so easily; it was as if he had always called him that. Vincent tried to say something but then he turned, and fled back into the house, calling out to their mother that Vincent was... home.

Being honest, Vincent forgot the meaning of home. He hadn't had one in such a long time, the definition of the word was so difficult for him to understand. Home. This was home. Despite that, he stood awkwardly outside in the cold, his breaths turning to cold puffs of frost in front of him. He fiddled with the dog tags hanging around his neck. Should he go inside?

Before he could make a decision, small warm hands were pulling him in so fast he stumbled on his way past the threshold. Suddenly, he was engulfed by a short, warm body that was far pudgier than his own. However he never saw their face, he would know this kind of hug anywhere. He would know this warm scent of plum tea and honey, the way the arms struggled to wrap themselves around his torso, how the person had buried their head into his soft stomach and was beginning to wet it with tears. Vincent knew exactly who it was, although he hadn't experienced them in almost five years. His mother.

Wrapping his arms around her and leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head, Vincent held back the wave of emotion that washed over him like holding back a pitbull raring to fight. The hug grew tighter, the two of them holding onto one another like their lives depended on it.

"Hey, Mom," Was all that Vincent managed to say without choking on his words, crouching down some so that he could hold his mother close to his chest. The only response that came was a shaky breath, a nod, and some choked up sobs. How long had Vincent really been gone?

The pair of them stood like that for the longest time, as if frozen within a picture. It was a while before his mother pulled away and peppered his face with loving kisses, mumbling incoherent Korean under her breath between them as she squished his face and pinched his cheeks. She was smiling, though, which made Vincent feel better. She seemed so happy just to see him home, a drastic change to the harsh, cold welcome from his younger brother.

She gushed, speaking so quickly Vincent could hardly understand it.

He laughed nervously and nodded, following her as she pulled away and tugged him along, hand in hand, to the kitchen where there was already a kettle of boiling water beginning to whistle on the stove. Two cups were set out and his mother placed him down at his spot at the table. His spot. It still seemed untouched from where he had left it after telling his mother he was leaving.

He asked, stumbling on a few words as he remembered the language he grew up with, 

There was a sigh, and his mother turned slowly as she produced the prepackaged bags of tea and placed them in the cups, She turned and took the screaming kettle off of the stove, carefully pouring the steaming water into each cup. She trailed off as she set the kettle back onto a cool plate on the stove.

Vincent exclaimed, fidgeting with the string on his tea bag.

His mother only nodded, sitting across from him and staring at the changing liquid in her cup, rubbing the lip of the cup with her finger.

He looked up at her and stared. His mother was so... old. She had aged so much, just as Bennet had. Like a grandmother, more apparent wrinkles and greying hair tucked into a tight bun. It made him feel so guilty.

He turned his gaze back to his tea, despite not being completely diffused, he took a quick gulp of it. It burned his throat but somehow made him feel better. Although the silence seemed sombre, it was somewhat comfortable. Usually, his mother liked to fill the silence, she was an avid conversationalist, but now she was so quiet. What had Benny done to their dear mother? How many times had she had a cup of tea go cold? How many times had she sat alone at this very table, staring at her drink until it was no longer welcoming, no longer appealing? How alone did his mother feel despite having a loving son? What had Bennet done?

Vincent said, keeping his eyes averted.

She answered, sounding distant and upset.

<... I love you.> He could feel her mood brighten, opening her mouth to reply, but suddenly loud footsteps broke the silence and they both turned towards the staircase as Bennet entered. There was sudden silence as he went to the fridge and took out a package of something, stuffing it into his pocket.

"Hey, Benny!" VIncent tried, standing up to give him a hug.

"Hey," Came the reply, and Bennet walked past him.

There was a pause, Vincent feeling awkward. He looked at his mother, who looked at him with this dull glint in her eye that tore his heart right in two. He turned fast, seeing Bennet make his way to the front door. He rushed to him and grabbed his shoulder.

"Hey! I wanna talk to you, Ben--" His hand was shoved off and Bennet whipped around to look at him.

"Stop calling me that." He spat the words out coldly before turning away and walking towards the exit again.

"Fine, Bennet," Vincent was starting to lose his temper, "Let's talk. It's been a while."

The very words made Bennet stop in his tracks. He turned around and glared at Vincent. It looked too familiar. The emotion that swirled in his brown eyes, not just anger, but also betrayal and sadness and frustration. The chocolate hue almost looked red. Bennet said nothing more, but made a U-turn in his steps and back up the stairs quickly. Vincent could have sworn he saw him wipe away a tear.

Sparing a glance to his mother, he followed him, bounding up two steps at a time. Once he reached the top, nostalgia hit him like a truck. It was just a hallway, but the faint stains of a crayon doodle still stuck on the paint of the closet door, there was a dent in the wall at the end of the hall where Vincent cracked his skull open from running down the corridor and skidding on his socks. The smell of children's finger paint and bubblegum filled his head and he almost felt dizzy. He missed this house. He missed his home.

Looking around, he saw Bennet's room door. There was still a variety of cartoon stickers stuck onto it. He could remember when they first stuck them on. The door was cracked, so it was obvious Bennet wanted to talk. Perhaps he had learned to try and run from his problems from his older brother. Vincent approached it carefully, giving a small knock before he entered. Damn. Even the room was the same.

The walls painted a dark indigo colour, a childish red bunk bed shoved to one side, with a chest labelled "TOYS" and a large dresser on the other. There was a desk in the corner in front of the window, the surface cluttered with textbooks and what he had assumed was homework. A laptop opened to various websites. There was still an old-style TV with the original SNES hooked up to it. It looked as though it hadn't been touched in years. The walls were adorned with posters of all kinds and some plain white fairy lights were strung across the walls. There was a corkboard with all sorts of pictures on it hung right next to the window. The floor was messy, a few clothes, a bookbag, more textbooks and papers. In the middle of it all, on the top bunk of the bed, was Bennet.

Again, it was quiet. Vincent stepped further inside and bent down, picking up a thick book that had been opened and pressed against its pages on the floor. He straightened the bent parts and closed it, looking at the cover.

"AP Trig?" He asked softly, walking over and placing it on Bennet's desk. There came a soft, unexpected response.

"I needed to keep busy after you left. I skipped a grade."

That was a stab at Vincent's heart. He felt so guilty just being in the room with him. Folding his arms, he leaned against the desk and looked at the floor, examining the intricate patterns of the old-fashioned carpet beneath his boots. With a sigh, he ran a hand through his neat hair and looked up at Bennet, who had his back to him.

"What the hell did you do to Mom?" He didn't sound angry, more like he felt upset. Betrayed.

"I didn't do anything. She's fine." Bennet replied coldly, lowering his head.

"Really?" Vincent asked, standing up and facing towards Bennet, "How much time did you spend with her? How often was Mom sitting at the dinner table alone? She doesn't even talk now!"

Bennet looked at him over his shoulder, and Vincent could see very clearly the tears glistening in his eyes and streaming down his face. He didn't say anything. Anger flared up inside Vincent.

"What the hell, Bennet?! You just don't care about her because I left? What kind of shitty, crocodile tear backstory are you trying to write here?" He was raising his voice and taking a few steps towards him, "There's a difference between being an edgy teen and being a crappy son! I came back to see my little brother, but all I got was a self-centred, moody, selfish brat! Don't take out your emotions on other people, Bennet, haven't you learned that?!"

There was a deep breath, and Bennet's voice exploded into the room like a sonic boom as he leapt off the bed, "No, Vincent, I haven't! You know why?! Because my one role model, my best friend, left me! You left me without a word and lied to me for five years! You call me selfish but you don't even look at how your own actions affect people! Stop being so self-righteous and open your fucking eyes!"

For a while, they stared at each other, Bennet's fists clenched so hard the knuckles were turning white. Vincent looked about ready to jump on him, eyes narrowed with a nasty scowl on his face. It was moments like this that Vincent saw how similar that they were. They were both breathing hard, Vincent was red in the face and Bennet had fat, hot tears dripping off of his chin.

It was Bennet who broke first, choking on a sob and bringing his sleeve to his face to wipe it away. Vincent would have moved to comfort him if he wasn't so heated.

"You shouldn't have come back, Vinny... shouldn't have come back," The last part came out in the form of a weak whisper.

Before Vincent could have said anything, he snatched his backpack up off of the floor and left the room. Vincent just stared after him until he heard the slam of the front door. Moments later, his mother came up and pulled him into another one of her ever warm, welcoming hugs. This time, it was him who was crying into her shoulder.

He really had come back for Bennet, hoping he would be just as loving about his return as his mother, but he was just mad. He had wanted Vincent to stay out of their lives forever. He had walked away from him. Vincent shuddered and let out a loud, gross sob.

Home sweet home, right?


End file.
